With Songs of Sorrow and of Mirth
by EstelRaca
Summary: Klavier takes Apollo with him when he finally goes back on tour, hoping to give Apollo a chance to recuperate. Things are going well until Klavier is stabbed on stage, re-opening wounds for both of them. Post-Dual Destinies, Klavier/Apollo established relationship.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This was written for the prompt of Klavier/Apollo, Klavier is stabbed at one of his concerts.

 _With Songs of Sadness and of Mirth_

 **Chapter One**

"So, how do I look?"

Apollo continues to stare down at the book that he's reading, ignoring Klavier.

"Herr Forehead?" Klavier sets the eye liner in his hand down on the counter, finally satisfied with his appearance.

When Apollo doesn't answer again, Klavier sighs and walks to stand in front of his lover. Bending down, he waves a hand in front of Apollo's face.

"Huh?" Apollo jerks back, reaching up to remove an ear plug from his right ear. "Did you say something?"

"You know, Herr Forehead, the concert isn't supposed to start for another fifteen minutes." Klavier captures the hand with the ear plug in his.

"No, _your_ part of the concert doesn't start for another fifteen minutes." Apollo's lips pull back in a grimace of distaste. "That horrific opening act has been on stage for five minutes already."

If Klavier strains his ears, he can maybe, possibly, hear the faintest sound of chords from the stage. "Apollo, at this rate, I'm going to think that you're just _pretending_ not to like my type of music. This level of aversion cannot be anything but a game."

"No game, I promise. I really, truly despise this musical genre, and it despises my ears. And my sinuses. And basically my whole body." Apollo gives a mock shudder.

"And here I thought that it was Athena with the sensitive hearing." Klavier's fingers gently slide around Apollo's ear.

Apollo gives a snort, reaching up to bat at Klavier's hand. "You don't need extra-sensitive hearing to know when you don't like something."

"And yet here you are." Klavier dodges Apollo's strike before reaching out again, trailing his hand down the side of Apollo's cheek.

"Well... maybe there are some things here worth listening to. And watching." Apollo turns his head, his lips finding Klavier's palm and brushing gently against it.

Klavier leans down closer, feeling the strain in his lower back, not caring because Apollo's lips are beckoning. "Despite the fact that I will be singing many of the songs from my old discography?"

"There are some that I like. Like the one you did with Lamiroir. Some others in that vein." Apollo leans forward, closing the remaining distance between them and melding his lips to Klavier's.

Klavier closes his eyes, his free hand wrapping around Apollo's neck, pulling them as close together as he can.

It has not been an easy year for them—for Apollo especially. Constance Courte's murder, the uncovering of yet more deeply-set corruption in the system, had shaken Klavier; Clay Terran's death had been a devastating blow to Apollo, one that he still hasn't recovered from completely. Will maybe _never_ recover from completely, depending on how one defines recovering, as Klavier will never truly be free from the shadow of Kristoph's betrayal. Some wounds change you irreparably, leave scars that will always be visible to those who knew you before.

Apollo smiles as he leans back, breaking off the kiss, and Klavier can't help grinning in return.

Stroking his thumb down Apollo's face again, Klavier presses a kiss to Apollo's forehead. "It is good to see you smile like that, Herr Justice."

Apollo squirms away from Klavier's hold, rolling his eyes as he does. The smile doesn't fade away, though. "Yeah, well, you've got a pretty good smile yourself. Though if you're not careful, you're going to smudge that ridiculous make-up, and you don't have the—" Apollo glances down at his watch. "—hour and five minutes needed to redo it."

Klavier touches a finger to his lips, glancing at Apollo's mouth and forehead, noting no transfer. "This is designed to stay on despite my sweating like I'm in a sauna under those lights. We would have to get a bit more... _exuberant_ before it became a problem."

Shaking his head, Apollo places a hand over his eyes and groans. "No. Not here, not when you're due on stage in ten minutes. And if you don't stop laughing, I'm going to throw something at you. Or several somethings."

Klavier presses his lips together, making a zipping motion across his mouth with his right hand. "I would never dream of laughing at you, Herr Forehead."

Narrowing his eyes, Apollo taps the book's spine against his open palm. "Why did I decide to come with you again?"

Because Klavier had convinced Apollo, after much effort, that a break would do him good. Because Apollo is healing from his losses, is happy at his job, but he doesn't _smile_ as much as he did before, and there is sadness behind it when he does, and Klavier thought maybe a vacation could help give him some time and distance without additional stress to speed his healing. Because Klavier is nervous, going back on stage, two of the four musicians at his back new people from the office—a _young_ group of new musicians, and he has _tried_ , so hard, to make sure that they are not part of the Dark Age of the Law, but if he's wrong...

All of which can be summed up very succinctly. "Because you love me."

A beat passes, and then Apollo sighs, settling down in his seat with another small smile. "Yeah. Despite my better instincts, I seem to have fallen into your trap."

"Trap?" Klavier arches an eyebrow. "What trap would that be?"

A faint blush touches Apollo's cheeks. "The trap where you're unfairly pretty, annoyingly intelligent and competent, and generally an all-around nice guy. Don't let all that go to your head though, all right?"

"How could I not, Herr Justice?" Klavier bends down again, kissing Apollo deeply. His breath hitches in his throat a bit as he thinks back over Apollo's litany of attributes. He finds it hard still, sometimes, to accept that he was not culpable for any of his involvement in creating the Dark Age of the Law. Not culpable for his brother's faults and failings, and his own inability to see them. Apollo never allows him to wallow in that guilt, though, throwing him unexpected compliments just when Klavier most needs them.

Apollo returns the kiss, though his hand pushes against Klavier's chest when Klavier moves to pull Apollo into a deeper embrace. "Uh-uh. Concert. Singing. We should be heading for the stage."

Giving a mock sigh of long-suffering distress, Klavier straightens back up. "I suppose. Though you still haven't answered my question."

Apollo's brow wrinkles as he lifts a finger to rest against his forehead, his classic thinking pose. It takes all Klavier's self-control not to grab the shorter man and spin his around in a circle. "Nope, don't remember. What question have I failed to answer?"

"The one I asked when you were ignoring me." Klavier spreads his arms out to the side, turning in a slow circle. "How do I look?"

"There are enough mirrors in here that you already know the answer to that. So stop fishing for compliments." Apollo takes Klavier's hand in his, and he's smiling again, perhaps the most that Klavier has seen him smile in one night in quite some time. Getting Apollo to agree to come with him had been a wonderful idea. "Come on, oh glimmerous one. Let's get you on stage before the fans start rioting."

XXX

Klavier leaves Apollo backstage with a kiss and a wave, joining his band-mates new and old as they tune instruments and prepare for the Gavinners' big return to stage.

If someone had asked Klavier if he would do this six months ago, he probably would have told them no. If pressed as to _why_ , he would have found a hard time articulating anything. He would have fallen back on the standard platitudes about needing to focus on his prosecuting, about the legal system needing all of his attention during a difficult time.

Constance Courte hadn't believed the platitudes.

She didn't press him for more information, though. She just sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder.

 _You look so sad, Klavier_. Her voice was gentle, her own smile sad as she stared up into his eyes. It had been so _strange_ , being taller than her, her having to reach _up_ to pat him on the back rather than down. _I won't make you talk about it. I've been watching the news. But... remember that you being sad and miserable doesn't help make anything better. And I've got some good kids who would really love to see you sing and play_.

He hadn't given her his answer about the concert then. He had told her he would happily teach the prosecutor's course, but he had hedged about the rest until the next day. Until he went home and picked up a guitar, for the first time in seven months, and found his fingers falling easily onto the old chords, and his voice was rusty where it echoed back to him from his empty house, but the music still felt _right_.

Just as he thinks it will feel right tonight. He can already sense it in his gut, the tight knot of mingled excitement and anxiety that he always feels before going on stage. He loves performing, from the bottom of his heart—loves singing the songs that he _wrote_ , hearing and _feeling_ the audience response, and it is even better than winning in court, when he is singing well and they are giving themselves to him and the music takes them all somewhere _else_. Somewhere _better_ , where love wins out, and emotions make sense, and it is a heady, wondrous, _powerful_ feeling like nothing else in the world.

As long as he is doing well, of course. As long as his band is playing well, as long as the lyrics flow off his tongue instead of tripping, as long as he doesn't bungle something. He knows how much each ticket costs, how precious an event this is for most of those who come, and he _wants_ to do it well. He wants to give them the best that he can possibly offer, but it isn't humanly feasible to always be at his peak, and so along with the excitement and joy there is always anxiety.

Never enough to qualify as stage fright, never anything that he will show to the audience, but he is sometimes gruff in his orders to his band-mates, persistent to the point of annoyance with his manager and the theatre staff about having everything as perfect as he can make it.

It will be worth it, he thinks as the curtain rises on a sold-out audience.

If he can give himself and Apollo a chance to smile, a chance to step outside the roles that have hurt them so badly for a few days and find a bit of peace, it will be more than worth it.

The band launches into the first song before the cheering has even begun to die down, because Klavier knows the music will be more effective than anything he could possibly say at quieting the audience. It is a new song, off the album that he has been working on for the last few months—the album that Apollo has been subjected to, along with Athena, Trucy, Ema, and the rest of the friends who have come to fill his too-empty house since he began reaching out to them. No one in the audience sings along, since they have at best heard pirated beta versions, but when the song is over they scream for more.

Klavier can feel himself grinning, his feet barely seeming to touch the stage as he stalks from one side to the other, intentionally riling up his fans as he asks what songs they want—what parts of _him_ they want, the old or the new, and though the clamor for the old is louder, there are enough begging for new content to make it feel balanced.

And they will _have_ both, will hear him singing the songs he wrote before he knew exactly how badly the world was broken as well as the ones he has written since. They will hear joy and they will hear longing and they will hear _peace_ , if he is achieving even a fraction of what he wants with his new songs—a hard-won peace, an acceptance of a world not yet perfect underwritten by a desire and willingness to change it for the better.

But first, he will repay their kindness, their loyalty, their faith, and give them a bit of what he was before.

The lights beat down, and he had forgotten how _hot_ they can be, how it can make it seem as though his skin is on fire. Not that he cares—heat outside just matches the heat inside, and at the end of the set he will have Apollo and a bottle of ice-cold water to cool him off.

Well, have a bottle of ice-cold water to cool him off, because Apollo is usually anything but cool and calming.

Klavier's lips pull back from his teeth, a grin and a challenge as his voice soars easily over the notes. It had taken him two months to get his voice back into a reasonable shape, but he _likes_ it, likes the way it has strengthened and deepened since he first debuted. He looses more and more of a German accent on the words, and the crowd screams in approval, an eager mass that he can only kind-of see through the glare of the follow spots.

That's all right. He will sign exorbitantly priced autographs after the concert, smile at girls and young men who will look away as though his gaze is scalding though _he_ is the one laid bare and made vulnerable in his music. _Then_ he will need to see them as individuals; now it is best to view them like the gallery, not single people but a fluctuating mass and his job is to keep them thinking in the direction that he—

Klavier's hands both slide across his guitar, creating a discordant _thred-oom_ that shatters the mood and music. " _Daryan?_ "

It can't be.

It isn't possible.

Daryan is in prison, is awaiting execution for killing a fellow officer of the law. The man standing before Klavier can't possibly be Daryan.

It _isn't_ Daryan, he realizes an eternity later, and the relief is so great that he almost collapses right where he is. Almost, but not quite, instead standing staring at the man. The hair has been styled to look like Daryan's; the clothes are an exact replica of Daryan's stage outfit; the expression when Klavier had first seen the interloper on _his_ stage, full of disdain, had been very close to the one Daryan Crescend wore when he last agreed to speak with Klavier. The line of the jaw is wrong, though, and the way this man _moves_ , a sort of shifting, fluid grace, is very unlike Daryan's forceful actions.

Not Daryan, then. Not a nightmare somehow come to pass, the darkness rising up from the music as it has from every other aspect of his life, and Klavier breathes out a sigh of relief.

He must have blinked, because he doesn't see the man move. One moment he has appeared on the stage four feet from Klavier's position, turned so that the audience can see his costume well; the next he has Klavier by the collar with his left hand, has punched Klavier in the gut with his right.

" _Traitor_." The man-who-isn't-Daryan whispers the name that Daryan calls him in Klavier's ear, his eyes wide and feral. "Murderer! Turncoat! They gave you _everything_ , made you who you are today, and as soon as it was _convenient_ you threw them away! We won't stand for it! We won't—"

And then the man is gone, torn away from Klavier by the furious howling mass of Cymbeline Bass. The drummer is snarling out curses in three or four languages as she bears not-Daryan down to the ground, pounding his head into the stage floor once, twice, three times.

Klavier should probably stop that. He doesn't want Cymb to get in trouble on his account.

He should say something to the audience, and Klavier blows out a sharp breath into his microphone. His body is shaking, his hands jittery on his guitar, his fingers not quite seeming able to hold anything tightly. Security is busy trying to keep the half-panicked crowd in place, and Klavier squints out past the stagelights, rainbows seeming to flash before his eyes. "Everyone, if you could please stay calm, we'll have this sorted out in a minute. Then we can—"

Ryan, his bassist, is suddenly at Klavier's side, fumbling with the strap to Klavier's guitar. His face is pale, and his fingers aren't shaking _quite_ as badly as Klavier's, but they're definitely unsteady. "It's okay, Gavin. Ambulance is on its way."

Klavier blinks. "Ambulance? I don't..."

Then Ryan pulls Klavier's guitar away, sets it gently down on the stage, and Klavier sees that there is blood staining Ryan's hands, staining the back of the guitar.

"Cymb, stop hitting the guy, he's _down_." Ryan gives the command sharply.

"But he—" Cymbeline raises her head, and there are tears in her eyes though her teeth are bared.

"It's okay." Someone cuts the mics after Ryan says that, and Klavier has to strain to make out the next words, though Ryan is standing right next to him. Has an arm around Klavier's shoulders, the other gripping Klavier's arm tightly, and is guiding Klavier slowly step by step toward the wings. "You've been stabbed, Klavier, but it's going to be just fine."

Klavier nods. " _Ja_ , of course."

It— _he—_ had better be just fine.

If he's not, Apollo's going to kill him.

XXX

Klavier was stabbed, and Apollo didn't notice.

Continued to read his book, only vaguely aware that the last song was maybe a little short, and he should have looked up, he should have gone out to the wings to see what was happening, he should have _noticed_ , but he _didn't_.

Not until two of the other four Gavinners members deposit Klavier in front of him, a knife protruding from Klavier's left side like some kind of horrific costume adornment, and Apollo's smile of greeting freezes on his face.

" _Don't_ let him touch it." It's the woman who snaps out the command, and Apollo should recognize her. Klavier had introduced Apollo to all of the other band members earlier in the evening, and Apollo has a vague idea that this is one of the other original Gavinners members but he's not sure.

"Paramedics should be here in about two minutes, they were on stand-by already due to the sold-out concert." A man with blood on his hands presses Klavier closer to Apollo. "Don't move, Gavin. The less you move, the less damage there'll be."

"You going to be all right watching him?" The woman frowns at Apollo.

"I'll be fine." Apollo takes Klavier's hands, squeezing them tightly. "We'll both be fine, right, Klavier?"

" _Ja_." Klavier reaches up to cup the side of Apollo's face, one of his ridiculous I-love-you grins in place. His pupils are dilated, and his hand is just a bit unsteady, but overall, considering what's happened, he seems remarkably calm and coherent. "One cannot help but be fine around Apollo Justice. He exudes it like a fragrance."

"No." Apollo shakes his head. "I'm going to attribute that ludicrous statement to blood loss. I've got Klavier, though. You guys go do whatever it is you need to do."

"You—" Apollo can see the quick calculations happening in the man's mind as he changes tactics. "Do you want to meet the paramedics or go help deal with our criminal, Cymb?"

The woman sighs. "Paramedics. I don't trust myself not to hit him again, and there's no way I'm letting him get off the hook for this because they call police brutality from a detective."

"You caught the... whoever did this?" Apollo's hands tighten on Klavier's, and breathing is suddenly much harder as he realizes that, of _course_ , this was no accident. Someone _stabbed_ Klavier. During the middle of one of his performances. While Apollo was a few dozen yards away, and didn't notice anything.

Cymb has already charged off, through the sprawling labyrinth of corridors that connects the backstage area to the rest of the world. The man, whose name Apollo also seems to have forgotten, pauses long enough to nod. He gives Apollo a reassuring smile that is just a bit too toothy as he walks away. "If two detectives, a forensics guy, and an assistant in the prosecutor's office can't catch someone who stabbed one of their own in front of them, we don't deserve our jobs."

Then he is gone, too, and Apollo finds himself alone with Klavier, the background din of thousands of strangers that they can't see echoing off the walls around them.

Klavier's gaze has wandered away from Apollo, toward the stage where his band-mate disappeared.

"Klavier." Apollo squeezes his boyfriend's hands, and Klavier turns languidly toward him. "Why don't you keep talking to me, okay? Until the paramedics get here."

"Anything for you, Herr Justice." Klavier reaches up to stroke Apollo's cheek again, his skin warm and dry. Though blood has begun to spread out in a red-black stain from where the knife protrudes, Klavier has managed not to touch any of it. " _Entschuldigung_. Though... this would perhaps require a bit more familiarity. _Ich bitte Sie um Verzeihung_."

"If you really want to apologize, don't do it in a language I can't understand." Apollo taps his finger against Klavier's nose, as though this were any other night, the motion feeling surreal—the whole _conversation_ feeling surreal, and if he keeps his eyes _up_ , doesn't look at the knife, he can almost believe that Klavier is fine.

"But you will not learn to understand it if I do not teach you by example, Herr Zaubermaus."

"Uh-uh, nothing with _maus_ in it gets to be a nickname. I am not a mouse."

Klavier laughs, though the sound trails off too quickly, and he sways a bit on his feet. "Not even a magic mouse? And here _maus_ seems so appropriate, given your size—"

"Do you want me to stab you, too?" Apollo can't tell if he's about to cry or about to laugh, and he's certain he looks ridiculous, but Klavier's smile is still genuine as he carefully leans down to kiss the top of Apollo's head.

" _Nein_." Klavier seems to be leaning a bit more heavily against Apollo, and his skin has taken on a dusky gray look beneath his golden complexion. "I would not put Mr. Wright and Ms. Cykes in that position. Though if you wanted to stab me with something other than a sword, at—at the..."

"Steady there." Apollo braces his feet, watching carefully to ensure that if Klavier collapses completely Apollo will be able to make certain it _isn't_ onto the knife.

" _Ich liebe dich, Barchen._ " Klavier's lips are still red, his stage make-up giving him a parody of a healthy complexion where it stubbornly stays on. His tongue and gums are becoming steadily paler, taking on more of a blue hue, and Apollo tightens his hold. "Little bear—better than a mouse, yes? Fierce and strong and determined, just as you are. One of the best things to ever happen to me, Apollo."

"Yeah? You've been one of the best for me, too, despite how everything started." Apollo tightens his hold on Klavier again, spasmodically, desperately, trying not to think back to other pictures of knives in people very dear to him. Klavier was walking two minutes ago; he is still talking to Apollo, even if his speech seems to become more stuttered with every sentence; the paramedics will be here in seconds, and everything will be fine. "But you'll have lots more chances to tell me about it, right? Lots more chances to write silly ridiculous songs."

(Songs that Apollo will listen to when it is Klavier strumming and singing alone, but he hates most of the final arrangements, and he wasn't paying attention when Klavier was _stabbed_ , he didn't notice just like he didn't notice that Clay was dead, didn't know what he'd lost until Mr. Starbuck contacted him, and isn't there supposed to be some sense that tells you when those near to you are hurt? Why does he not know a part of his heart is in mortal danger until someone else tells him? Why—)

"Ah. _Sanitater_." Klavier smiles over Apollo's shoulder. Apollo can't tell anymore if he's slipping between the two languages because he enjoys doing it to tease Apollo or if Klavier simply can't tell what language he's using anymore. Klavier shifts in Apollo's hold, taking a step forward.

All of his weight comes down on Apollo a moment later, but Apollo is prepared, and he keeps Klavier from collapsing until one of the paramedics can help him gently lower Klavier down onto a gurney.

XXX

Apollo stands just outside the doors that finally separated him from Klavier, his skin cold except for where the tips of his fingers tingle with the fading warmth from Klavier's body.

Klavier had stayed conscious, though with a steadily decreasing level of coherence, for about three-quarters of the ride to the hospital. Apollo had managed to stay at his side, tucked up at the very head of the ambulance, out of the way of the paramedics who were busy shoving fluids and blood and medications that Apollo couldn't even pronounce into both Klavier's arms. They had cut the soft fabric of Klavier's shirt away from the knife, packed gauze around it, and then left it alone, one calling ahead to the hospital to have the operating room team prepped for immediate emergency abdominal surgery. There had also been a list of numbers, including heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygenation, that Apollo couldn't understand, as well as an off-hand comment about _possibly spleen, possibly liver_ that Apollo was fairly certain didn't bode well, from the way the man's face turned grim when he said it.

Apollo hadn't asked any questions. It had taken a great deal of fast talking and the fabrication of several laws related to visitation rights as well as Klavier's stubborn insistence that Apollo be allowed to come to gain him access to the ambulance. Given that Apollo might already be in trouble if the paramedics are smart enough to remember some of the numbers he rattled off and look up the actual laws, he wanted to stay quiet and unobtrusive.

So he just sat in his small corner, scrunched up, his fingers smoothing through Klavier's long blond hair, and tried to make sense of what Klavier was saying.

Decided that it was a very good thing he hadn't seen the man who attacked Klavier, after Apollo reassured Klavier for the third time that Daryan Crescend was still in prison, that Klavier hadn't done anything to betray Daryan but rather that Klavier had stayed true to _himself_.

How could someone call themselves a Gavinners fan and not know what Klavier went through with Daryan?

They were four minutes and twenty-eight seconds from the hospital when Klavier's blue eyes finally closed, rolling up under eyelids that were far too pale under the make-up that covered them. Apollo knows the time because the paramedics kept calling numbers to each other, including the time, and counting the time was the only thing keeping Apollo from screaming.

Now there are no numbers, though. There is no skin warm under his fingertips, and he thinks—hopes—Klavier was aware enough to know that Apollo was there. Thinks he must have been, since pet names in German tripped off Klavier's tongue until he stopped talking completely. _Engel. Liebling. Schatzi. Falke_ , said with a sly smile that makes Apollo suspect what the word means, and he presses the heels of his hands to his burning eyes and takes deep breaths.

(He had no pet names to give back to Klavier, and for the first time since their tentative relationship started Apollo regretted that he always played the straight man. Though Klavier didn't seem to care, smiling every time Apollo said _Klavier_ or _Klav_ , staying still when Apollo asked him to, so trusting, always so trusting even after everything and—)

"Are you Mr. Justice?"

Apollo lowers his hands, drawing deep breaths, forcing his voice to be quieter than usual. He doesn't want to scare anyone else, and he's certain there are other people here facing nightmares just like he is. "Yeah? I mean, yes. That's me."

The woman in green scrubs inclines her head. Her hair is tied up in a neat bun, and a bundle of papers attached to a clipboard is in her right hand. Gesturing toward a row of chairs on the right side of the room, she offers Apollo a sympathetic smile. "Is it true you have power of attorney for Mr. Gavin?"

Apollo nods, drawing a shallow breath of the hospital air, trying not to wince at the clean, dry scent.

"Then there are some things I need to ask you and some papers I need you to fill out." The woman settles into a chair next to him, maneuvering the stack of papers onto Apollo's lap. "First off, does Mr. Gavin have any medical conditions we should be aware of?"

Apollo blinks, trying to process the question. "He's _twenty-six_. And keeps himself in ridiculously good shape."

"I'll take that as you not being aware of anything." The woman nods. "And is Mr. Gavin currently taking any medications? Prescription or... recreational?"

"Are you asking me if Klavier's doing drugs?" Apollo's voice is flat, betraying only a hint of the rage starting to build in his chest.

"We wouldn't report anything. We just need to know anything he might be on that could interact with anesthetics—"

"He's _unconscious_ from _blood loss_ from a _stab wound_." Each word is louder than the last, and Apollo can see others starting to raise their heads, to glance in his direction.

"Mr. Justice, I understand why you're upset. We're just trying to get as much information as we can." The woman's hands move in a placating gesture. "I'm sorry if you find the questions offensive. I'm going to leave you here to fill out as much as you can on these papers, all right? When you're done, bring them to the desk over there."

Following her pointing finger, Apollo swallows any other angry remarks and gives a jerky nod.

The woman stands, but her expression is still pensive. "One more question I need to know the answer to now though, Mr. Justice."

She pauses, clearly trying to gauge how he's going to react, and Apollo forces himself to take a deep breath, to calm down as much as he can. She's just doing her job. She's not like the paparazzi who harass Klavier, throwing around unfounded accusations to sell papers, constantly revisiting the losses he has suffered and acting as though he should be grateful they are rubbing salt in open oozing wounds. Apollo's voice is more tired than angry when he asks, "What else?"

"If the worst should happen... do you want us to resuscitate Mr. Gavin or not?"

Apollo's body freezes, his mind refusing to process the words into anything sensical. Klavier said he would be _fine_. Klavier said everything would be _fine_ , and he _isn't_ going to die like Clay died, he _isn't_ , and Apollo isn't going to make this decision. They've never talked about this, never considered that it might be something they _needed_ to talk about, the grim patina of grief and regret that had forged the trading of medical power of attorney before they began dating not _quite_ dark enough to let them imagine this. Just because Klavier realized he didn't want Kristoph making medical decisions for him around the same time Apollo realized with Clay gone he no longer _had_ someone to make medical decisions for him didn't mean they were thinking about _dying_ , about DNR orders and life support and all the myriad potential complications of—

"Mr. Justice?" The nurse tentatively touches his shoulder, and it is sympathy on her face again. Or perhaps pity, and that snaps Apollo back to himself a bit, because he will _never_ allow himself to be pitied.

"Yes." Apollo gives a jerky nod. "Resuscitate if it's needed. Don't... don't let him die without doing absolutely everything you can to save him."

The nurse walks away, and Apollo turns determinedly to the paperwork filling his lap.

He will not cry until it's done.

He will not grieve until they tell him he has reason to.

He will not have _reason_ to cry.

Everything will be _fine_.

It doesn't make the burning in his eyes go away, but it keeps him from crying onto the documents as he skims the legalese with the easy speed of familiarity, signing away as much culpability for the hospital as they can resaonably ask in between filling out what he knows of Klavier's personal and family medical history.

Not that he would sue the hospital, anyway. He will know who is to blame if Klavier dies.

The tip of the pen breaks off, and there is a hole punched six sheets deep in the stack of papers, a blot of ink darker than blood clots at the base.

Standing stiffly, Apollo moves to the desk and asks for another pen.

At least the paperwork gives him something to do other than watch the seconds slowly tick away.

XXX

Apollo doesn't know exactly how much time has passed before Trucy throws herself into his arms.

He could figure it out, probably, by looking at the clock. He remembers exactly when they wheeled Klavier into surgery. But time has seemed to expand and contract around him as he waits for news in the room they guided him to once he was done with paperwork. Sometimes it seems as though time is moving like sap in the winter, thick and slow; sometimes it is whishing by like the rapids of a waterfall, dragging him along faster than he can process.

"Apollo!" Trucy hugs him tightly, her arms around his neck. Only after she's done that does she pull away and study his face, one hand on either cheek, holding him in place. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." Apollo smiles at his friend and partner, though the expression—the words—feel more forced than usual. "I wasn't on stage. I didn't even know anything happened until... until I saw Klavier."

Athena and Mr. Wright have also gathered around him, and Apollo blinks up at them blurrily, grateful for their presence and also feeling guilty, somehow, that they're here on his behalf. Athena has her hands on her hips, is staring at him with that knowing little frown that says she hears something in his voice she doesn't like.

"I really am fine." Apollo focuses on the relief that he feels, having these people here, fixes his mind on it until it nearly blots out any other feeling. "And... thank you guys. For coming."

"This isn't the kind of thing anyone should have to sit through alone." Phoenix settles into the chair next to Apollo. He is in street clothes, his hair hidden, his hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie. He apparently didn't shave before coming, stubble standing out dark against his skin.

"We want to be here for Klavier, too." Trucy releases Apollo's face, straightening to look towards the operating room, as though her eyes could pierce through concrete and metal and show her how Klavier is doing. "How... there wasn't..."

"Mr. Edgeworth wasn't able to tell us much about Klavier's status." Athena wraps an arm around Trucy's shoulders, pulling the smaller girl into a half-hug.

"I think that's because no one knows much." Apollo glances up at the clock, then frowns as he forces his brain to do calculations it wouldn't normally appreciate after midnight, and especially not a midnight like this. "He's been in surgery for over three hours now. They haven't... they haven't told me anything."

"That's probably good." Phoenix's hand pats at Apollo's shoulder, the motion awkward. "That means they're just focusing on their work."

It means Klavier isn't dead yet, at least. Apollo draws a slow, shallow breath through his nose and nods. Then he frowns, thinking back on what Athena said. "How does Edgeworth factor into this? He wasn't... he didn't go to the Gavinners' concert, did he?"

Phoenix's snort of laughter answers that.

Athena smiles down at Trucy. "Help me get all the steps here straight. I don't remember all the Gavinner's members."

"I do. Well, most of them. I'm still getting used to the new guys." Trucy draws a deep breath. "Mr. Ryan N. Blues, ace bassist, is a member of the Gavinners as well as a forensics expert. He began collecting evidence at the crime scene while Ms. Cymbeline Bass, one of the detective member of the Gavinners, arrested the criminal."

Apollo nods. "I'm pretty sure I met them both at the conc—at the crime scene."

"Right." Trucy reaches out, taking Apollo's hand in hers and holding it tightly. "Well, apparently it was decided once the perpetrator was at the detention center and asking for a lawyer that Mr. Edgeworth should be contacted."

Athena picks up the thread. "Because it's important to choose the right prosecutor for a case that involves one of their own being hurt—someone who's going to be thorough but fair, determined but not do anything that the defense can say was... um..."

Trucy chimes back in. "Someone who's not going to cheat, even if it's tempting and the son of a bitch deserves it. Someone who'll nail the bastard to the wall but do it all legally."

 _Someone like Klavier_ , Apollo can hear most of them thinking. Or maybe that is just his own thoughts, echoing too loudly as he tries not to think about if Klavier will be able to stand in court again.

Trucy glances at her father. "Sorry, Daddy. I know I'm not supposed to say words like that, even though I'm practically an adult."

"I think, in situations like this, I can't really blame you." Phoenix smiles at his daughter. "Though you may want to be careful what insults you choose. Calling this nutjob a bastard is an insult to bastards everywhere."

Athena places her free hand on her hip. "Well, calling him a nutjob's an insult to the mentally ill. If he does have some kind of mental illness, that's not what let him empathize more with Daryan than Klavier. The amount of selfishness needed to do that—ugh, it makes my skin crawl."

Apollo doesn't want to talk about the man who stabbed Klavier. If they do he might decide he wants to do something incredibly foolish, like acquire a knife of his own and head down to the detention center and do to the man what he did to Klavier. Klavier would not appreciate that, though—would likely frown at Apollo quite severely and tell him he was being an idiot. So instead Apollo switches the conversation back to its original track. "That's how Mr. Edgeworth got involved, and then he called you?"

"Yeah. As soon as he realized it was Klavier who was hurt, he called me." Mr. Wright's hand again pats awkwardly at Apollo's shoulder. "I woke up Trucy—"

"I was already _awake_ , Daddy, I don't go to bed that early anymore."

Phoenix ignores his daughter. "And then I called Athena, and we all decided to come see how things were going."

Athena settles into the chair on the other side of Apollo, taking his free hand between hers. Her fingers are so warm they feel like brands against his skin, and Apollo realizes exactly how _cold_ he is again. "We were worried about Klavier. And about you."

"I'm..." Apollo glances up at Athena, and realizes that he doesn't have it in him to drown out all the discord that will appear in his voice. Better not to lie than to be caught in one. "I'll _be_ fine. Whatever happens... I'll be fine."

Before Apollo quite knows what's happening Trucy has launched herself at him again, enveloping him in a fierce hug; Athena's arms join Trucy's a moment later, and that heavy weight can only be Mr. Wright's arm, settling across Apollo's shoulders.

"You will be, Polly." Trucy's voice shakes, is barely intelligible, her head buried against his chest. "I promise, you will be."

Stroking the girl's hair, Apollo doesn't say anything, just sinking into the embrace of his friends and allowing their warmth to penetrate the cold that is trying to encase him.

XXX

An hour later Phoenix is sleeping, Trucy curled in the chair next to him like a gangly puppy, her head resting on her father's shoulder. There has still been no word about Klavier.

Apollo paces from one end of the waiting room to the other, glancing between the door and the telephone. They would call, if Klavier crashed during surgery, right? They would let him know? They wouldn't just leave him here waiting, wondering—

"Apollo."

Apollo blinks, raising his head to see that Athena has planted herself in his pacing path. "Huh?"

"That's the fifty-eighth time you've walked the same path. _My_ feet are starting to get tired watching you." Athena's hand moves to her earring, toying with it as she studies him. "I just... did you need to talk about anything?"

"Is it my friend or the psychologist asking?" The words are meant to be a joke, but Apollo can hear the hard undercurrent to them, watches as Athena flinches back slightly.

"Both, always." Athena's head tilts as she gives an apologetic shrug. "But the friend is always going to take precedence. You know that, right?"

"Yeah." Apollo scrubs a hand across his face, his eyes feeling gritty as he blinks. "I do. I'm sorry. I'm just tired and... really worried."

"I know the feeling." Athena reaches out slowly, taking Apollo's hand in hers. "I know he's not my boyfriend, but I like Klavier a lot, and I really do understand how scared you are because I'm pretty scared too."

"I know." Giving her hand a squeeze, Apollo allows his gaze to drift up, away from Athena's eyes. "I'm sorry." It seems he has been saying that phrase a lot lately.

"No need to be." Athena swings their linked hands, back and forth, back and forth, drawing Apollo's eyes back down. "Though if you don't mind my being nosy..."

Apollo shakes his head. "Nose away."

"When we came in and you said you didn't notice right away that Klavier had been hurt..." Athena's hand covers Widget, though the small robot has been relatively silent, glowing a soft, sad purple for the last hour. "You were hurting, so much, but you were also... was that guilt that I heard?"

Apollo thinks about not answering. If he doesn't say anything, Athena will leave him alone, though she will continue to watch him, wary and anxious until he deals with his problems. So instead, though it goes against all the instincts he learned growing up, he shrugs and answers truthfully. "Seeing Klavier like that... it's awful enough on its own, but it's also making me think about Clay. How I couldn't do anything. How I didn't even know he had died, for... for way too long. I wasn't watching Klavier's concert. I was backstage, and I didn't notice. He could have _died_ , right there, and I would just have kept reading—"

He has to stop, because if he doesn't stop he will start crying, and that is _completely_ unacceptable.

Athena's arms wrap around him, and her voice is husky with unshed tears. "You were _supposed_ to be doing something like reading, Apollo. He wanted the tour to be a _vacation_ for you. For you to watch him or ignore him and do whatever you needed to do to feel good. He wouldn't want you to feel guilty about this."

Nodding, the motion jerky and unsteady as his breathing, Apollo returns Athena's embrace with equal enthusiasm, glad that she and Trucy (and Klavier, and Clay, but he isn't going to think about them right now) have no trouble initiating physical contact when Apollo needs it. "I know. But I just... it's too soon. I can't... it's making me think... terrible things. About myself. About... I wished it was someone else in the band who got hurt. They _protected_ Klavier, they caught the guy who hurt him, and I just wished it was one of them who got stabbed. Which would have hurt _Klavier_ , and _he_ doesn't need this, either, and I... I don't know if I can _handle_ this, 'Thena, I really don't."

The last words are a whisper, and Apollo finds that he is shaking badly, his teeth chattering together as though they were in a freezer.

"You can." Athena releases him, taking both his hands instead and meeting his eyes with a fire-bright blue gaze that reminds him of Klavier's. "Whatever happens, we're all here for you, and you're one of the toughest guys I've ever met, Apollo. We'll be all right, even if... even if he dies."

A strangled, piteous noise that sounds more like a dying kitten than a person ever should slips out of Apollo's mouth, and something hot and liquid starts rolling down his cheeks, tears that don't stop even when he squeezes his eyes as tightly shut as he can.

"But he _won't_. He _shouldn't_." Athena pulls him in for another hug, her hand rubbing in circles between his shoulder blades. "It was a traumatic injury. If he was going to die from that it should have been quick, yeah? So take the no news as good news."

Nodding, Apollo scrubs at his eyes, trying to erase the signs of tears. "I know. That's what I keep telling myself. I just..."

"You're tired and you're hurting. And I know we're not going to be able to help either of those until we hear from the surgeon. So." Athena takes his hands again, and Apollo is grateful to see that her eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks moist too. "Instead of you pacing yourself into exhaustion, why don't we do a jigsaw puzzle? It doesn't require any thinking—just pattern recognition and determination. I think we're both pretty good at those."

"Okay." Apollo follows where Athena tugs him, toward the tables that are lined up against the back wall, their tops pretty blue-and-green patterns that Apollo suspects are designed to be soothing.

They spend the next hour putting together a picture of frolicking dolphins, until a woman in blue scrubs comes into the room and Apollo embarrasses himself by crying again, though this time they are tears of relief and utter exhaustion.

XXX

Klavier dreams, and the dreams are nightmares.

Daryan follows him, alternating between looking perfectly normal and looking like a corpse that has been decomposing at a crime scene for several days before being found. Klavier runs from him, but his steps are heavy and slow, as though something else were dragging at him, holding him down.

He doesn't want to look and see what it is. He just wants to get away, escape the steady, inexorable approach of the laughing man who used to be his friend.

"Can't run from me, Klavier." Daryan's voice alternates with his appearance, sometimes normal, sometimes gravelly and harsh. "Can't run from any of it."

Klavier doesn't want to watch what is holding him back, but he stumbles, falling into something soft and yielding and fleshy.

Blond strands of hair are wrapped around his feet, his ankles, his thighs, snake up to cover his fingers, his wrists, his arms as he yowls and pulls back in terror. Blue eyes cold with hatred and disdain appear and disappear in the writhing mass of hair, and Daryan has caught up to him.

Fingers that are half-skeletal stroke Klavier's hair away from his eyes. "You forgot about me, didn't you? Got so caught up in your mirror-image's trial that you forgot all about your old friend. Forgot about what you did to me. What you did to our fans."

Follow spots and stage lights flare into life, blinding, painful in their intensity, and Klavier blinks away tears, struggles to see through the glare to the audience that he can suddenly hear chanting beyond the light.

"Listen to them." Daryan's arms wrap around Klavier, a parody of an embrace, and Klavier can smell the stench of rot mingled with the deodorant that Daryan always used during concerts. "So eager to drink our blood, Klavier. Whether it's on the stage or in the courtroom or in the news, there's nothing they like more than fresh-spilled blood. A species of vampires, that's what humanity is."

The chanting becomes more comprehensible, though the lights are still blinding, Klavier only able to make out a hulking sense of darkness moving beyond them. His skin feels too hot, too tight, and he would lower his gaze but he doesn't want to see the stage made of Kristoph's skin/ _his_ skin/both of them, it doesn't matter which, it is terrible no matter what choice he makes.

"Though sometimes they ask for things other than blood, yeah?" Daryan leans closer, a smile that is anything but kind on his face. "Remember when we found those stories? Reading them together with the band?"

Closer, closer, and Klavier tries to scream, tries to reel away, but he can't, hair that cuts like wire and is being stained red with his blood holds him in place, and Daryan's lips are somehow both cold and _burning_ as they close on Klavier's, Daryan's fingers _hurt_ as they dig into Klavier's shoulders, and the audience is cheering, cheering, _encore_ and—

With a shiver and a start Klavier wrenches his way from the dream into consciousness, panting for a few seconds as he blinks against the darkness.

Where is he?

What's happened?

Why does he _hurt_ , a deep, visceral pain in his abdomen?

Something beeps in the dark, and there is the green glow of monitors.

Someone warm is pressed against his side, and Klavier wills his head to turn, his body to shift so that he can see who the welcome heat source is.

"Klavier?" Apollo's voice is sleep-slurred, his eyes blinking furiously in the dark. Then he is sitting up abruptly, pulling the blanket and sheet off them both, and Klavier frowns as cold air immediately strives to steal away all of Apollo's warmth. "Klavier? You're awake?"

" _Ja_." The word sticks in his mouth, taking four attempts to say, and Klavier adds an incredibly sore throat to his growing lists of aches and pains.

"Klavier?" Trucy's voice is also sleep-slurred, though that doesn't stop the girl from appearing to hover over Klavier a moment later, her hair sticking up every which way. "You're awake! You're okay! You're—"

"Probably wishing people would stop screaming his name and instead offer him some water." Phoenix Wright's voice comes from somewhere far beyond Klavier's feet, and Klavier doesn't think it's worth the effort to attempt to sit up or raise his head and see where the man is.

"Right, water." Trucy disappears, reappearing a moment later with a water glass.

Klavier takes a handful of sips, glad to find that it makes his mouth and throat feel better, though there's still an itchy, scratchy, _raw_ feeling to his throat. " _Danke_ , Fraulein."

" _Bitte_." Trucy reaches out a hand to tentatively move some strands of hair away from Klavier's eyes. Then her gaze flicks to Klavier's other side, towards Apollo, and she takes a step away from the bed.

Klavier turns, moving slowly, in minute increments that don't make the aching pain in his gut worse. He tries to raise his right hand to touch Apollo's cheek, but that arm seems to be attached to a small army of tubes and monitors, so he instead raises his left hand. " _Guten Morgen_ , _Liebling_."

The ghost of a smile flickers on Apollo's face, though he still looks shell-shocked, his eyes studying Klavier as though he expects Klavier to disappear at any moment. His voice is a bare whisper, far softer than anything Klavier has heard from him before. "It's night."

Klavier allows his gaze to roam around what is clearly a hospital room. "Right. That would be why it's dark."

"Yeah." Apollo's voice gains some of its usual volume as he chuckles, running a hand across his face. "That would be the reason. Do you remember what happened?"

He does, unfortunately, if he thinks back. A man who wanted to be Daryan. A punch that held steel Klavier hadn't seen, too distracted by the emotional blow. Trying to reassure Apollo as the world became steadily fuzzier around the edges.

Nightmares populated by the living dead, the death row prisoners who own a part of his past.

The heat of the stage and the roar of a crowd that doesn't care if it's his life-blood they get so long as the blood is warm and available at their demand.

No.

No, that's the nightmare, the people in the audience screaming and scared when they realized he was hurt, not euphoric, and he needs to keep the two straight. "I remember, Herr Justice. I'm sorry if I frightened you."

"Why would I be scared?" Apollo's voice cracks just a bit. "You were just unconscious for sixteen hours after a five-hour surgery. Nothing to be scared about."

Klavier glances at the collection of monitors and IV poles by his bed. "I am conscious now though, _ja_?"

"You are." Again Apollo runs a hand across his eyes, and Klavier realizes belatedly that the man is fighting back tears. Taking Apollo's hand in his, he holds it as firmly as he can, hoping that it will be comforting. Apollo draws a shaky breath, though it steadies towards the end. "You're awake and you're going to be just fine."

"Ah." Klavier smiles at the familiar phrase. "Is that the doctor's prognosis, or Apollo Justice's? I am quite happy with either."

"Both." Apollo relaxes back down onto the bed, pressing a kiss to Klavier's forehead. "The doc said as long as you avoided infection and woke up within twenty-four hours or so with your memory intact, you'll be just fine after five or six weeks of recovery."

"Six _weeks_?" Klavier frowns, shaking his head, trying to sit up and then immediately deciding that was a very poor decision as pain and nausea spike. " _Nein_. I am not going to be someone's lap dog for six weeks. Two or three, maybe." Klavier tenses his abdomen again and revises his estimate. "Perhaps four. But not six."

"Even if you're being my and Polly's pampered lap dog?" Trucy runs a hand over his hair again, leading Klavier to believe that it's likely become a tangled, unmanageable mess around his head.

"Well..." Moving his gaze from Apollo to Trucy and back, Klavier gives a soft sigh. "I suppose there might be some exceptions that can be made. But my work at court—"

"Uh uh." Phoenix paces into view, a day's growth of beard on his face. "If Edgeworth tries to give you any trouble, I'm trusting these two to tell me and I'll personally make him regret it. There's a few phrases I can bring up with regards to vacations that will make him see reason."

Klavier licks at dry lips. "The rest of the concert tour—"

"Don't worry." Trucy smiles as she pats him on the head. "The other Gavinners already have the tour indefinitely post-poned. People will either be refunded their ticket prices or get the chance to hold on to them if you decide you're up for doing it later."

Apollo's fingers are like a vice-grip around Klavier's. "All you have to do is focus on getting better."

"When you put it that way..." Klavier gives a mock sigh of suffering. "I suppose I have little choice."

"No choice." Trucy's pat is a bit more forceful this time, and she casts a meaningful glance at Apollo. "You're going to get back to one hundred percent—no, a hundred and _ten_ percent before you even think of going back to any kind of work. Now, Daddy and I have a bunch of phone calls to make. Athena and Ema and Mr. Edgeworth and the rest of the band's all been by over the last twenty-four hours, and we've got strict orders to let them know as soon as you're awake."

Phoenix presses a button on his watch, causing it to glow green for a second. "I'm not sure they meant they wanted to be called at one in the morning—"

"I'm sure they _did_." Trucy grabs her father's hand, hauling him toward the door. "Come on, let's get calling. Polly, you make sure he stays still and gets water and anything else he needs."

There is a flash of brighter light from the hallway, and then Trucy and Phoenix are gone, leaving only Klavier and Apollo in the dim room.

Klavier turns his head to Apollo, smiling in amusement. "Did Trucy just haul her father out of here so that we could kiss?"

"Probably." Apollo gives a breathless laugh. "Once she decided it was all right for me to date you, she became a really good asset."

"She was already a good asset. She is a lovely and brilliant young woman. Though this does make me like her even a bit more." Klavier lifts his head as far as he can without his abdomen protesting and then settles back down with a grimace. "I am afraid you will have to kiss me, though. I seem to be doing a rather good imitation of a turtle right now."

Apollo laughs again, the same half-hysterical sound. "I don't know how you manage this—making me go from terrified for you to wanting to hit you for bad jokes in the space of a few minutes."

"Talent." Klavier grins. "Pure skill. Though perhaps it is failing, since I don't seem to be earning my— _mmph_."

Klavier closes his eyes, melting into the feel of Apollo's mouth against his. Apollo's lips are slightly chapped, uneven, but fierce and strong, and they seem to burn with the same fire that flows through the rest of the small defense attorney.

(Not rotting, not invasive, nothing like the dream, and Klavier pushes it as far from his mind as he can.)

The kiss is over far too soon, Apollo pulling back when Klavier tries to deepen it. "Sorry, Klav. Not until the doctors okay it. I'm not even supposed to be sleeping next to you yet."

Klavier raises one eyebrow. "Because I might become too aroused by your disheveled clothes that you've been in for what must be forty-eight hours if I'm doing my math right, and somehow hurt myself?"

"Because you've got an eight-inch incision in your stomach and more stitches and dissolvable goo than I care to think about inside you, making sure you don't start bleeding again." Apollo's touch is feather-light as it strokes across Klavier's forehead, though his body curls back down into the space it had occupied before, tucked up tight on Klavier's left side.

"Ah." Klavier doesn't really want to think about that, either, at least not right now. "Well, I'm fine."

Apollo gives a snort of laughter into Klavier's shoulder.

"Yeah..." Klavier chuckles briefly, too, stopping because it hurts. "I suppose for various definitions of fine. But I _will_ be fine. And I am happy to have you by my side. You are warm."

"So are you." Apollo's left hand closes in the stiff, crinkly material of the hospital gown that's covering Klavier. "It's... really nice. I'm glad Mr. Wright's really good at making up laws."

Klavier raises his eyebrows.

"Technically it's past visiting hours and we're not supposed to be here." Apollo presses closer to Klavier's side. "And I'm _really_ not supposed to be next to you like this, like I said. But Mr. Wright's a very fast talker when he needs to be, and he makes up laws and reasonable-sounding law numbers about a hundred times better than I did. By the way, if a paramedic calls and asks the prosecutor's office about a visitation law titled VL-98, it's a new international establishment of the rights of significant others to ride with their loved ones in an emergency, even if they're not married or in any kind of civil union."

"Apollo..." Klavier kisses the top of Apollo's head, because it's the only thing he can easily reach. "There are some things you probably shouldn't admit to your prosecutor boyfriend. Like the fact that you and your boss have been committing some kind of perjury for the last twenty-four hours."

"There were no oaths involved, and I wasn't giving legal testimony." Apollo's voice sounds better—calmer, less strained, and his warmth is seeping into Klavier, driving away the chill of the hospital. "You're sure you wouldn't cover for me?"

"I stick to the law, even when my very cute boyfriend asks me to do otherwise." Klavier presses another kiss to Apollo's hair, hoping Apollo can hear the teasing in his voice. "Sorry, _schatzi_."

"Nah, that's about what I figured." Apollo raises his head, giving Klavier a brief kiss on the cheek before returning to his position. "I'll deal with it if anything happens. I do happen to know a few decent defense attorneys. I'm just... really, incredibly glad that you're alive, Klavier."

"Me, too." Klavier maneuvers his left arm until he can snag Apollo's fingers again. "And I am sorry. I—"

"Have nothing to be sorry for." Apollo speaks firmly. "You were the victim, Klavier, that's all. But we're going to get you fixed up, back in the courtroom, and out on stage. Yeah?"

" _Ja_." Klavier squirms until Apollo's body is settled as comfortably as he can manage against him, Apollo's head on his shoulder. "I will be fine, Herr Forehead."

Klavier owes Apollo that much, at least, for ruining his vacation before it even really started.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Klavier is back in court in a little over four weeks.

His recovery goes smoothly. He was in good shape prior to the assault—necessary, to keep the physique that his fans like—and he has a surprisingly large and (mostly) adept set of assistants to help him get back on his feet.

(They don't make him go to the trial—he is still in the hospital when it begins and ends, a quick, clean victory for Simon Blackquill. Klavier watches highlights of it, on the news, but staring at not-Daryan for too long, listening to his rants about how Klavier failed the Gavinners and his fans, makes Klavier's stomach hurt, and he doesn't protest when Apollo punches the button to turn off the television with more force than is probably necessary.)

It's most important for him to get back in court first, to prove wrong those who are saying that the incident will make him jittery or flighty or somehow less effective at his job. He wins his first three trials handily, until he goes up against Athena Cykes and Trucy Wright, the duo cutting his winning streak short after a fierce three-day back-and-forth. Not that he minds losing to them—better a loss on his record than an innocent in jail, and he says as much with a smile to the reporter with the microphone who manages to corner him after the trial.

Athena and Trucy are at his door a few hours later, with pizza and cheeky comments about the trial, and the three of them settle down on the couch to eat with Apollo, the foursome basking in the chance to relax for a few minutes and just enjoy each other's company.

They talk about little things at first. New decorations and advertising for the Wright Anything Agency office. The promotions coming up at the precinct and who they think should benefit. The movies that will be opening tomorrow, and if they should go see something together. Klavier doesn't say much, though he smiles and contributes when something catches his attention. It's _nice_ , the way he can be quiet around these three, the way they don't always need him to be gregarious and vibrant. Klavier likes being the center of attention—he would never have survived either of his careers if he didn't—but there is also pleasure in simply being a part of a larger group, a piece of a whole, and that is something he finds most easily with these people.

(There is a reason he became a prosecutor instead of a defense attorney, part of a structure instead of holding it on his shoulders, and perhaps that is one of the fundamental differences between himself and Kristoph. Though Kristoph had also loved structure, form, appearance, and Klavier did well enough for the Gavinners, so maybe this piece of the puzzle doesn't quite fit, either.)

Apollo's hand runs along Klavier's thigh, drawing Klavier's attention back to the conversation. Lifting his head, taking a sip of his drink—non-alcoholic, since drinking in front of Trucy would be impolite and he is _not_ doing anything illegal with Phoenix Wright's daughter, ever, even something as simple as allowing her an underage drink—Klavier stares around at the clearly-expectant group. "Hmm?"

"I asked..." Trucy hesitates, looking at Apollo and Athena uncertainly. Then she continues on, all in a rush that is difficult to parse. "Have you decided what you're doing with the concert tour yet?"

"Ah." Klavier slowly sets his drink down, understanding now why the tension in the room is steadily increasing. Donning his best easy smile, he shakes his head. "No. I've been otherwise occupied running in circles after some very frustrating _frauleins_."

Athena laughs, clearly trying to help clear some of the tension, though her eyes watch him knowingly. "Hey, it's not our fault your witness was a bloody liar."

"No." Klavier concedes the point with a nod. "But it _is_ a tad unfair, your propensity for telling whether someone is lying to you or not. I would be lying if I said that I were not a bit jealous."

"We can always give you our opinions, you know." Apollo's hand slides into Klavier's, a firm, warm grip. "If you'd ask us for them."

"And take all the fun out of your day and the money out of your bank accounts?" Klavier shakes his head. " _Nein_ , I will continue to muddle through on my own. Though I will remember the offer, if I ever really need it."

Trucy is biting her lip, her expression clearly torn as she tries to decide whether to ask again or not.

"I will decide soon." Klavier smiles at the young woman. "And you will be the first to know."

That seems to satisfy Trucy, and the conversation moves on, to quieter, easier topics.

When Apollo's hand stays in his, Klavier suspects that it won't be the last they talk about this in the near future.

XXX

"You haven't picked up a guitar since we've been home."

Klavier starts back into full consciousness as Apollo's voice makes the statement directly into his ear.

They haven't been in bed long, but Klavier still finds himself more tired than usual after long days, and the warmth of Apollo pressed against his side had been so incredibly comfortable that he had immediately begun drifting off. Now he finds himself blinking into the darkness, trying to get together an answer that won't frighten Apollo or be a direct lie. Apollo has a frighteningly accurate sense of when Klavier is lying, though it seems to be less acute when it's late or dark or Apollo's tired. Eventually Klavier decides on a playful, "Have I not?"

"No, you haven't." Apollo's tone is flat, and his hand slides down Klavier's chest, toward the scar that shows pale white against Klavier's golden skin. He doesn't actually touch the slightly raised skin, his fingers ghosting slowly around and around the remnants of the injury. "You haven't been singing, either."

Klavier tenses his arm, pulling Apollo closer to him, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. Has he not been singing? He can't remember. He's been so focused on getting back into the swing of the prosecutor's office that he hadn't even considered it.

"And you're having nightmares." Apollo's fingers slide just a centimeter down, pausing on the center of the scar before he abruptly pulls them away, his touch immediately shifting to Klavier's face. "Not every day, but... often enough."

"You've been having nightmares, too." Klavier turns his head so that he can study Apollo's profile—at least as much as the dim lighting allows. "I've woken you from them."

He's hated that he's responsible for Apollo's nightmares, because even if it is Clay Terran who dies most often in Apollo's dreams, it is Klavier's near-death experience that brought the nightmares back full-force when they had finally been fading away.

"I know. I'm sorry." Apollo lowers his head, his voice hitting a lower, thicker register that Klavier knows means he's upset.

"No need to be." Klavier smiles, moving his hand so that it rests against Apollo's cheek. "I don't mind. I just... wish you didn't have to suffer."

"I'm not too keen on it, either." Apollo's head tucks itself back into the angle of Klavier's shoulder, Apollo's body molding familiarly to Klavier's. "But I like you suffering less."

"It's just a few nightmares." Klavier presses a kiss to Apollo's head.

"And the aversion to your music?" Apollo's hand sketches notes against Klavier's skin, his touch light and comforting.

"I'm not averse to it. I just..." Klavier sighs. "Perhaps this is a sign. That I was right before. That the Gavinners have gone on too long. That I need to... grow up and focus on what is important."

" _Klavier_." Apollo springs up, and the way he says Klavier's name, full of fire and fury and determination, reminds Klavier again of why he loves this man. As though he needed any reminders. "You do your job, and you do it really damn well. You _do not_ have to give up your music because of it. And if that _scumbag_ has made you think you do, I—I'll—"

"I understand." Klavier lays a finger across Apollo's lips, then begins gently tugging on the trembling man's arms, trying to get him to lay back down. "Ach, get back here, you're letting all the cold in."

"If it's cold, you should turn the air conditioning down." Apollo settles down despite his grumbling, once more molding to Klavier's side. "But really, Klav... I've seen you when you've got your music, and I've seen you when you try to cut yourself off from it, and I don't want to see you hurt like that again."

"But you don't even like it." The words are teasing, but Klavier finds his voice trembling a bit too much to make the teasing seem honest.

"I don't like _all_ of it." Apollo's lips brush against his cheek, and then teeth nibble sharply at Klavier's ear lobe. "But I _love_ you, even if you can be a _dummkopf—_ "

"Ach, he is learning, I am in trouble!"

"And if you don't want to play anymore because you just _don't_ , because you've lost the drive, then that's one thing. I will defend your right to give up the music if you want to." Apollo half-sits, draping himself over Klavier's chest so that he can press his lips gently to Klavier's. "But I won't let anyone _take_ it from you, and I won't let you twist yourself up in knots about it again. You've already fought that battle and won, Klavier."

"True enough." Closing his eyes, Klavier thinks back on the months that followed his brother's trial. On the tight ball of agony that seemed to be a constant companion in his chest. On the songs that he killed, refusing to let the words slide out of his pen or off his tongue, and the poison that built up inside him each time he said that he could not, _would not_ allow himself the luxury of song when there was so much else he should be focusing on.

Professor Courte had helped him that day, as she helped him many times before, telling him that it was all right to sing and play still.

Opening his eyes, Klavier hooks his leg through Apollo's and in one smooth motion has turned them both so that he is on top of the smaller man, his lips claiming Apollo's with fierce desire. After a muffled squeak or two, Apollo wraps his arms around Klavier, his tongue teasing until it finds access to Klavier's mouth.

When they break apart, they are both breathless.

"So." Apollo wraps his fingers in Klavier's hair, tugging just slightly. "Should I take that as a _thank you, I will be playing again_ or as a _no, I have decided music is no longer my thing_?"

"I think I will try tomorrow." Klavier grabs the strands of hair that like to shoot off of Apollo's forehead in strange directions, giving them a gentle tug as he tries to ignore how _good_ Apollo's fingers feel in his hair. "For tonight, I have other things in mind."

It isn't the first time they've had sex since Klavier was released from the hospital, but it's the first time it's felt like _them_. Like Apollo isn't afraid to touch him too roughly. Like Klavier isn't punctuating every other _I love you_ with _I'm sorry_.

Apollo's hands still spend too much time touching Klavier's scar, as though needing to reassure himself that Klavier is really in one piece. Klavier still apologizes, when he doesn't catch his tongue in time. But it's _better_ than it has been, and Klavier croons out a few phrases of a lullaby to Apollo as they drift off to sleep, giving them both hope that things will be fine sooner rather than later.

XXX

Singing is easier than picking up a guitar again.

It is as though once he starts singing the music immediately begins flowing down the familiar paths, and Klavier finds himself humming in the kitchen while he makes breakfast, belting out songs in the shower, tapping out rhythms to go with the sing-song he makes of reports as he works. It feels _good_ , just as good as winning his cases had, and he decides he will take Apollo, Athena, and Trucy out to eat to repay them for their kindness.

When he gets home he files what he needs to from work, checks that Apollo has already claimed dinner-making duties, and goes to pick up a guitar.

His fingers stop before closing on the instrument, though, a tight feeling in his chest and a sharp pain stabbing through his gut that is worse than when he was actually stabbed.

 _Silly_. Klavier stares at his hand, closed into a fist inches from where it needs to be. _These are_ yours _. Your instruments. Your music. Your life._

His guitar, the back of it red with his blood, Ryan's hands unsteady as they try to unclip it...

(His audience, his fans, and they want him to pay for what he did, they want to see him bleed, they want him to apologize for upholding the _law_ and...)

"Klav?"

Klavier starts, caught off guard. He finds himself smiling at the awkward, uncertain way Apollo shortens his name. It's not something Apollo did often before the incident, and he seems hesitant every time he does it now, but there's something so sweet and earnest and _determined_ about the way Apollo says it that makes Klavier love the nickname. Apollo is probably the _only_ one Klavier would allow to butcher his name like that, but _from_ Apollo it's something he adores.

Pulling his disobedient hand to his chest, Klavier turns to face his lover. "Need help reaching something in the kitchen, _schatzi_?"

Apollo narrows his eyes. "No. I'll just stand on your counter if I need to."

"But—" Klavier studies Apollo's eyes and sighs. "Just make sure not to fall and crack your skull open, _ja_? Not that I think marble would fair that well against your hard head."

"Because I haven't always had to deal with a world designed for people several inches taller than me." Rolling his eyes, Apollo sidles into the room, coming up next to Klavier, his eyes flicking between Klavier and the guitars. "Trying to decide which one to play?"

Klavier studies his collection—electric, acoustic, locally made, from the far reaches of the civilized world where the guitar is recognized as one of the most beautiful instruments ever invented. He remembers buying each of them. He remembers how excited he was each time, how he chose particular ones for particular sounds, has used each for particular albums and songs. He remembers how much he loves the feel of strings against his fingers or the pick.

And now he can't pick one up, because every time he tries to he sees his blood staining one of them, hears Apollo's voice cracking in terror and pain as Apollo tells him he will be fine.

He will not tell Apollo that. Apollo has his own burdens to bear, his own nightmares to slay. But he must not lie to Apollo, either—Apollo hates being lied to, and Klavier is certain he would be able to tell. "I'm... trying to decide what to do."

It is, so far as answers go, rather pathetic. He can tell by the way Apollo raises his eyebrows that Apollo isn't impressed with it, is wondering what lies underneath the words.

Klavier turns away from the instruments, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Perhaps I will just work on composition tonight. I am almost done with what we need for the new studio album."

"If that's what you want." Apollo's fingers wrap around Klavier's wrist, holding him in place. "But I was also thinking... maybe you could teach me a bit. Some chords or something. You've talked about it before, and I don't think either of us has something else going on tonight..."

Apollo's cheeks are flushed red as he makes the offer, his eyes not quite meeting Klavier's.

Klavier has to pause for a moment to collect himself, gratitude that Apollo would make this offer vying with guilt at Apollo _needing_ to make it. Before too much time has passed, before it becomes too awkward, Klavier forces himself to nod. "I would be happy to teach you, Herr Forehead. Perhaps if you choose an instrument...?"

Apollo stares at the display wall in growing horror. "Is there one that isn't worth more than I ever have been or ever could be?"

"Based upon insurance policies? Probably not." Klavier wraps his arms around the smaller man, pulling him into a tight embrace. "But I can guarantee you are worth far, far more than any of them could ever be in my eyes."

"You're such a sappy _dork_ sometimes, you know that, Gavin?" Apollo rolls his eyes, but his cheeks are heated again, and he's smiling slightly, enjoying the flattery even if he isn't always comfortable with it.

Which is exactly why Klavier makes it his mission to say things like that as often as he can. "Choose an instrument, and together we will make her sing a song of life and love to the universe, one such as the world has never heard."

"Now you're just being intentionally ridiculous." Squirming out of Klavier's hold, Apollo aproaches the guitars as though they might leap out and attack him at any moment. "Something acoustic, I think... oh, man, I don't know. This one?"

Apollo gently lifts a guitar that was stained a soft red off its rack. He holds the instrument out to Klavier.

Klavier takes it easily from Apollo's fingers, smiling as his hands find their rightful places.

He spends the next hour and a half teaching Apollo. He settles Apollo in his lap, settles the instrument— _Rosa_ , he whispers in Apollo's ears—into Apollo's uncertain hands, and proceeds to demonstrate a handful of simple chords. Apollo's fingers aren't as long or as nimble as his, but it's clear that Apollo has a good feel for rhythm and harmonics, and Klavier soon loses himself in the joy of sharing music with someone he trusts.

It isn't long before he's goaded Apollo into singing, surprised at how smooth and _gorgeous_ Apollo's voice is. They could easily sing together, if Apollo were willing—a duet between lovers, and it would be so easy to market...

Except Apollo wants nothing to do with Klavier's fans, staying as inconspicuous as he can. It's a decision Klavier doesn't blame him for—one he has encouraged, actually, having seen how vicious the Gavinners' fans have been to the lovers of other band members.

No matter, then. He will simply get to enjoy Apollo's voice himself, revel in the feel of his voice and Apollo's splitting off into harmonies before coming back together in soaring chorus. Klavier's chest _aches_ as they sing, but it's the _good_ ache, the ache of _need_ and _want_ that means the music is coming out _right_ , and if they could just stay like this together, both their hands fumbling on the guitar strings but their _voices_ carrying on the melody regardless...

Eventually Apollo's fingers slip, striking a discordant series of notes, and Apollo's voice falters, fading away.

For a moment they just sit in silence, Klavier's arms wrapped around Apollo's waist, Klavier's head buried in the crook of Apollo's neck as he simply breathes in the warmth of his lover.

Then Apollo is straightening, clambering his way out of Klavier's hold, his hands fumbling the guitar strap off and holding the instrument out to Klavier. "I have to go. To check on dinner. Or our roast will be so well done it won't be roast anymore. It'll be a lump of charcoal."

"I feel that would be a very small price to pay for what we have just done."

"That's because you're rich and have no concept of the cost of meat." Apollo takes another step away, but his eyes are soft as they study Klavier. "After dinner, if you'd like..."

"Very much." Klavier strums out a soft series of chords. "Thank you, Apollo. For... for giving this back to me."

Apollo flushes dark red, turning and fleeing into the kitchen.

Klavier closes his eyes, letting his fingers pick out whatever rhythm they wish, singing nonsense words as he tries to find lyrics that can capture even a fraction of what he feels.

He never succeeds in capturing the exact emotion, but he does pen the hottest hit single for their next album, and he supposes that will have to do.

XXX

The Gavinners' newest studio album is released two and half months after Klavier's attack, to critical and popular acclaim. Apollo spends a lot of time proclaiming that he doesn't have any idea what songs the critics were listening to, since with the possible exceptions of _True Justice, My Love_ and _Mourn the Fallen (Save the Innocent)_ they are all terrible assaults on the ears. It is Apollo who follows the album's progress on the charts, though, announcing to Klavier how they are doing every morning and evening; Apollo who becomes incensed at accusations of trite lyrics and false emotion, saying it isn't the _emotion_ that's lacking from Klavier's music and that Klavier's grasp of lyricism has improved approximately five hundred percent since they met.

Klavier's not sure if the latter statement is a compliment or not, but it makes him laugh regardless, and he is grateful to Apollo for running interference between himself and the reviews.

Even the success of the album doesn't stop Klavier's agent from calling, first on an every-other-day basis, then on a daily basis, then twice daily, telling him he has to decide what to do about the concert.

He is singing again.

He did fine in the recording studio.

There's no reason he should ache at the thought of standing in front of an audience, not when he stands readily enough in court, is winning cases regularly again.

They are his fans. They just want to see him perform.

(Five thousand people screaming, and it was terror, he knows that, but there have been enough nightmares saying it was joy, and there is no shock to dull away the pain of injury in the dreams, no way to evade or avoid Daryan's grasping hands or mocking laugh. That is just in _dreams_ , though, just in dreams, and he is not beholden to his nightmares.)

Three months to the day after he was stabbed Klavier announces that he will be starting the tour again. His smile looks good for the camera, he thinks, running his fingers over a still picture in the paper.

He will just have to make it look good for the performances, too.

XXX

Klavier plants Apollo in the audience for the Gavinners' rehearsal at the theatre.

He tells himself he wouldn't have had a problem anyway. The atmosphere is too different between a rehearsal and a performance. The stage lights that will beat down with merciless heat and energy during the performance are off; the lights over the audience are on, making both the soft red seats of the first floor and the dingier, less impressive seats of the rising tiers behind them seem far less impressive.

There is no sussurrus of noise from the empty audience chairs. There is only Apollo, with ear plugs in and a case file spread before him, studying a synposis that Athena asked him to look at earlier.

Klavier sings for Apollo, his eyes staying fixed on Apollo's position even as he forces himself to move across the stage, to make himself visible from different angles to different seats, so that no one will feel as though they have been cheated. He can do this, if he keeps Apollo's bored face in mind—if he focuses on the way Apollo's lips sometimes move to the lyrics, his foot frequently tapping slightly in time to the percussion lines, clearly not as disinterested in the proceedings as he's pretending to be.

If he pretends they are at home...

If he focuses all of his mind on doing what Apollo would expect a glimmerous fop of a rock star to do...

If he buries himself alternately in the music and in all that Apollo is, fiery certainty and strength there to act as an anchor...

He can do this.

He _has_ to do this.

When Cymbeline's hand pounds his shoulder at the end of their run-through, congratulating him on a brilliant performance, Klavier is able to return the woman's smile.

He _will_ do this, damn all the nightmares and monsters that ever lived in the shadows.

XXX

"You're sure you still want _Guilty Love_ as part of the first set?"

" _Yes_." Klavier snaps out the reply, then forces himself to draw a deep breath. Ryan is attempting to be sympathetic, to make sure that Klavier is going to be all right. It is not his fault that Klavier currently feels very far from the _fine_ that he has been trying to insist he is. It is not his fault that Klavier's gut _aches_ , a tense fire that spreads out from the numb skin of his scar in what Klavier knows can only be imaginary pain. "The song is a good one and popular. It is not the song's fault that a madman interrupted our last performance."

"All right." Ryan holds up his hands, backing away from Klavier. "Whatever you want. It's your gig; you're the boss."

Which is why this is all going to fall apart.

He is the boss, and he has agreed to do this, needs to do this, _wants_ to do this, but the closer they come to stage time the more certain Klavier becomes that he made a terrible mistake.

What's he supposed to do about it, though? He can't very well back out now. He can't disappoint people again.

Everyone in the band is making it a point to stay away from him as much as possible, and Klavier doesn't blame them. He knows that he is being unreasonable, demanding perfection and more from anyone who happens to cross his path at the moment, but he can't seem to make himself _stop_.

"Klavier?" Even Apollo's voice is tentative.

Turning to his lover, Klavier tries to dredge up a smile, shoving his hands in his pockets so that they can't cross protectively over his stomach and let Apollo know that something's wrong.

"Everything all right?" Apollo's right hand rises, moves behind his head. "You're being a bit more of a diva than usual."

"I'm fine." Klavier throws Apollo's favorite phrase at him, making sure that it isn't _quite_ a lie. He is physically fine. There is no reason for him to be upset. Apollo's hand moves to the bracelet on his wrist, and Klavier hurries on, finding words that aren't a lie but that don't contain the entire truth, either. "Just some pre-show nerves. Nothing you need to be concerned with."

It is Klavier's problem, after all, not Apollo's. Apollo has already been through _enough_ on his behalf, _more_ than enough, and Klavier is done making him hurt.

Apollo's hand falls away from his bracelet, and he gives a small shrug. "If you're sure. I think I'm just going to hang out in your dressing room during the concert, if it's all right with you. I'm not... well, I think I'd be more comfortable there."

"If that's where you'll be happiest, that's where you should be." Klavier hopes that he hasn't paled, that his smile hasn't faltered, because he _does_ mean the words. Apollo is under no obligation to watch the concert or be close by.

"See you between sets then, yeah?" Apollo's smile is tentative and uncertain.

" _Ja_. I will wait with bated breath for us to be reunited." Klavier can feel his smile widening as it becomes more genuine when Apollo shakes his head in exasperation.

"Knock 'em dead, Gavin." Apollo is smiling too as he leans up, his lips grazing against Klavier's cheek, the softest kiss.

"I will try." Klavier watches Apollo walk away, trying not to let the it show that every step Apollo takes seems to steal a little bit more of Klavier's composure away. "I will certainly try, _engel_."

XXX

Apollo tries to settle down for a bit of reading, but he finds it difficult. The books he brought—one legal tome, one mystery thriller that he's only a quarter of the way through but already fairly certain he knows the ending to—stare up at him mockingly, the black marks on the page not wanting to form into words.

There's no reason he should be nervous. Security is _ridiculously_ tight right now, everyone determined to prevent another incident. Just because Klavier's acting jittery and harsh doesn't mean anything's wrong. Klavier is _always_ ridiculous before a performance. And after a performance. And basically just ridiculous about performances, to the point where he can sometimes be sidetracked from more important things. If a dead body couldn't distract him from trying to give the best performance, a little thing like being stabbed shouldn't be a problem.

Running his fingers lightly over his bracelet, Apollo thinks back to the conversation he had with Klavier. There hadn't been any lies in what Klavier said. Klavier very rarely lies to him, something that Apollo appreciates dearly, especially after the Phantom incident. To know that someone you trust and care about is blatantly lying to you, when you're both supposed to be dedicated to the truth... that was months ago, though, and his and Athena's relationship is stronger than ever now. Plus Klavier _isn't_ lying to him... though there are ways of hiding the truth without directly lying.

"Arrrgh." Apollo closes his eyes, slumping down with his head pillowed on his arms next to the books that he's fairly certain he's not going to want to touch again today. "Why do things have to always be so complicated?"

The books don't answer, which is probably a good thing.

Deciding that moping will likely not help him feel better, Apollo pulls out his phone and scrolls through his contacts. He hesitates on Athena's number, then scrolls past. A bark of laughter slips out at the thought of calling Miles Edgeworth to help him deal with anxiety. He's still not sure the Chief Prosecutor didn't insist he take down the number just to _cause_ him anxiety. Klavier is, clearly, busy. Phoenix can be comforting when he thinks it's needed, but Apollo isn't certain Phoenix would think _I am on vacation with my boyfriend but I am worried to the point of nausea about nothing in particular_ falls into that category. Trucy would probably be more sympathetic, but she's also jealous of him for being here.

(Clay's number is no longer in his phone, deleted in a fit of grief and rage, though his eyes always _expect_ it to be there, nestled among the others. He has thought about putting it back, but he never quite manages to type the necessary buttons.)

Scrolling back around to the beginning of his contacts list, Apollo calls Athena.

"Hey, 'Pollo." Athena's voice is crisp and clean, and there is no background noise that he can hear. "Everything all right?"

Apollo picks at a scratch in the counter. "Why would you think things aren't all right?"

"Because the concert should be starting just about now and you're calling me instead of being with your boyfriend."

"Point." Apollo huffs out a breath. "I just... I keep feeling like something's going to go wrong."

"That's because something _did_ go wrong last time." Athena manages to sound perfectly reasonable. "But that doesn't mean something's going to go wrong _this_ time."

"No." The negation sounds hesitant to his own ears.

"Unless... there's something else?" Athena's tone is gently questioning. "Someone or something that's making you extra nervous?"

"I don't know. Klavier's..." Apollo tries to find the right words. "He's always tense before a concert, you know? Well, maybe you don't know, you haven't seen one yet. And I guess I usually see him during performances where things go horribly wrong. Hey, maybe that's why I'm nervous. The first time I saw him perform, someone ended up dead; second time, someone ended up dead; third time, he gets stabbed."

"That's definitely an impressive track record." Athena's voice teeters on the edge between entertained and horrified. "But nothing's going to happen tonight, 'Pollo. I'm pretty sure there are currently more cops at the theatre than there are in the rest of the city. Good night to go rob someone, if we feel like it, Junie."

Apollo can just barely hear Juniper Woods stuttering out a refusal and an admonishment.

"Ah, well." Athena gives a long-suffering sigh. "Guess it's no fun stealing without Trucy or Mystic Maya around, anyway."

"Athena..." Apollo finds himself laughing, and the simple act eases some of the tension in his gut. "Thanks. You're wonderful."

"I try." Apollo can picture Athena's smiling face, though her voice has returned to serious and level when she speaks again. "Do you guys want me to come down? Or Trucy? Though do warn Klavier that we are _not_ paying anything if we're coming as moral support. I don't care if he's only a fifth of the band, his name's in the band's name, we're not paying."

"Nah, that's all right. I think we'll be good. Though..." Apollo runs a hand over the cover of the legal book. "Do you think it would be bad if I went and kept an eye on Klavier anyway? I mean... I don't want it to look like I'm paranoid, but..."

"You've had a lot of bad things happen when you're not there to do anything about them." Athena pauses, clearly thinking. "Do whatever's going to make you feel better, Apollo. I don't think Klavier would mind you watching him perform, and if it would make you happier to be able to see that he's all right, then go for it. If you keep feeling like you need to be there, like something bad will happen if you're not watching, then that's a different story. Then we'll need to work through some things. But for tonight... just do what feels right to you."

"Thanks, 'Thena." Apollo smiles. "I'll keep in touch with you, all right?"

"Sounds good. Enjoy your vacation, Justice, and give your boyfriend a good-luck kiss from me."

Apollo snaps the phone closed, his cheeks burning.

Then he heads for the stage wings, certain he can still make it before the performance starts in earnest.

XXX

The curtain rises, the lights flare into bright life, and Klavier stands frozen in a nightmare.

He is smiling. He's fairly certain he still is, at least, because that's the expression he had on his face when his body decided that moving is out of the question.

The crowd cheers, a wild exuberance, a blood-lust that is beyond control.

( _No_ , that is not right, they are excited to see him, that is all.)

Dark shapes dart in patterns that he can't understand behind the wall of blinding pain, waiting for him to come close, for him to offer himself to them.

(He needs to move, he needs do _something_ , anything, but if he moves, if he moves—)

Cymb counts off, and the band launches into their first song, a tidal wave of sound that almost but not quite drowns out the roar of the monster they are trying to appease.

Klavier tries to move his fingers, knowing that his entrance is coming up, that he needs to have the proper chord ready. His hands no longer seem to obey his commands, though, his body locked in rigid denial.

He misses his entrance, and the music that had been building falters for a moment before circling around to the beginning, giving him another chance to come in.

The noise from beyond the burning wall grows louder, more demanding. Takes on form and meter, in time with the drumline that Cymbeline is powering ruthlessly forward on.

All he has to do is move his hands. All he has to do is open his mouth. The songs are a part of his body, a part of his muscle memory, and he should be able to do this.

His cue comes and goes again, but the band is smoother this time in recovering, simply circling around once more.

 _Three strikes you're out, Gavin_. Daryan's voice is a mocking whisper in his ear.

The chanting of the crowd is comprehensible, now, a wave of sound to counter the music, to claim it, to drive it back.

" _Ga-vin! Ga-vin! Ga-vin!_ "

He would give them what they want, if he could. He is still smiling for them, though his eyes are burning, his cheeks are wet, and they are going to crucify him in the papers for this.

" _GA-VIN!_ "

A demand, a cheerful howl, ecstatic screams used as an undercurrent for the chants, and he realizes that they think he is playing with them. They think that if they simply cheer loudly enough he will come in, will be able to move fingers he can't even feel anymore, will be able to be what they want him to be.

He is drowning, and to the monster beyond the lights it is still just a game.

The curtain falls abruptly, a pool of red velvet that causes Ryan to jump back with a curse.

Klavier drops with the curtain, numb hands moving to cover his face, and only vaguely feels something small and fierce collide with his side.

XXX

"Turn your mics off!" Apollo snaps out the command to the stunned Gavinners' members, Klavier's shivering form held tight in his arms. Carefully disentangling one hand, he finds one of the hooks for Klavier's guitar strap and frees it, allowing the instrument to slide to the floor.

"Gavin?" Ryan reaches down to touch Klavier's shoulder.

Apollo resists the urge to bite the man's hand. He shouldn't be surprised that it took the band members longer than him to realize that Klavier wasn't just toying with the audience, standing there smiling serenely while they worked themselves into a frenzy waiting for him. It had been taking all Klavier's self-control just to stand there and smile, and if Apollo hadn't figured out how the curtains worked... if he hadn't decided to come...

But he did. He's here and he can help Klavier, though he's not sure Klavier's even aware that he's here yet, the man sobbing in what Apollo's pretty sure is disconsolate terror.

Turning to the rest of the band members, Apollo bites his lip, trying to decide what Klavier would want to do.

 _They give themselves to me, allow me to lead them where I would go._ Klavier's smile had been somehow both fond and sad as he sat sorting through fan-mail. _In return I give them the best music that I can—the best of_ me _that I can. It is not always a fair trade..._

No, it's not, and Apollo can hear the sounds of the crowd getting ugly. Abruptly he comes to a decision. "I'm taking Klavier backstage for a few minutes. You guys can play on your own?"

"Well, yeah, but we won't have a singer." Cymb gestures toward the curtain with her drumsticks. "Plus most of the people out there came to see _him_. He's kind of always been the main face of the Gavinners."

"I..." Klavier draws short, shallow breaths, his skin hot and clammy against Apollo's. He has removed his hands from his face, and now has them pressed against his side, where Apollo knows his scar is. "I can play. I am sorry. I can—"

"You can come with me." Apollo runs a hand over Klavier's hair. Turning back to Cymbeline and the others, he gestures to the curtain. "There's a ridiculous number of Gavinners fans out there. I'm sure some of them can sing and have the lyrics memorized. Call some of them up on stage. I don't care. Just stall for twenty, thirty minutes. Okay?"

Cymbeline and Ryan look at each other, and then Ryan throws his hands up in the air. "Why not? Just let us know as soon as we can stop, all right?"

Apollo doesn't bother to answer.

He really doesn't care what rest of the Gavinners do.

All he cares about is Klavier Gavin, and right now Klavier needs to be off this stage.

XXX

Klavier takes slow sips from the ice-cold water bottle that Apollo shoved into his hands after Apollo pressed him down into a chair.

He can breathe easily now, the sounds of the crowd diminished by distance. It is only a minute or two later that the Gavinners begin playing, threads of melody coming to him, and he resists the urge to bury his head in his hands again and hide.

He can't believe he let this happen.

Now that he is off stage, away from the lights and the noise, the paralyzing fear and the nightmare-snippets that had kept him from moving seem ridiculous. Could he really not get his fingers to move? Could he really not keep himself from crying like a child? Could he really not breathe properly? Did his stomach really hurt that badly, as though the knife were cutting into him again and again with each cry of his name?

No. No to all of those questions. How did he let this happen? How does he always manage to disappoint everyone?

Familiar fingers begin undoing his braid, pulling his hair back behind his head and combing through it.

"Apollo, don't." The request comes out husky and weak. "I need to get back on stage."

"No." Apollo's fingers find his scalp, massage in just the right way, and Klavier finds his body relaxing despite himself. "You need to talk to me. Are you up to doing that?"

"There's nothing to talk about." Klavier takes another sip of water, finding that his hands are shaking again. "I panicked. I shouldn't have. I won't do it again."

"Klav..." Apollo's hands pause, and then instead of hands against his head there are arms around his shoulders, Apollo hugging him as tightly as he can from behind. "If you could just force your way through this, don't you think you would have earlier?"

Klavier thinks back to the way he desperately willed his fingers to move... and the stillness that held him wrapped tight, at least keeping him from embarrassing himself too much. Leaning back against Apollo, he closes his eyes. "I have to."

"You have to perform?"

"Yes." Klavier raises his hands to rest atop Apollo's. "This is the second time I have promised these people a performance. I have to give it."

"If you can, then you will." Apollo's lips trail gently over Klavier's cheek. "But if you can't... if they really care about you, if they're really your fans, then they'll understand. They'll give you time and space to get back to a point where you can _enjoy_ performing again."

Klavier doesn't say anything, trying to decide if Apollo is being too hopeful about humanity in general and Klavier's fans in particular.

"But that's part of the problem, isn't it?" Apollo's voice takes on a growling undertone, protective and harsh. "That's part of what you've been having nightmares about. Because some of them _don't_ care about you at all. Some of them just _want_ , just _demand_ , like that—"

"They are mainly good people. They just... they know my music. They know what the papers say about me. And what the papers say is what will sell papers." Klavier tightens his hands around Apollo's. "Some of them follow me on Facebook, other social media, and then they get to know a bit more of _me_. But I am still not a real person. In both my professions, I am someone to be cheered for or booed down, not someone who can afford... this."

Apollo maneuvers around the chair, not letting go of Klavier's hands as he comes to kneel in front of Klavier, staring up into Klavier's eyes. "No matter whether you're singing or prosecuting or being a lazy lump in bed, you are an _incredible_ human being, Klavier Gavin. One of the best people I know. Also one of the vainest, but hey, you know you're pretty, right?"

Apollo's fingers reach up, toy briefly with a strand of blond hair hanging down by Klavier's left ear.

Then Apollo's expression sobers. "But you are _human_. And that means it's all right to hurt. It's all right to be afraid. It's all right to decide you don't want to do things—"

"But I _do_." Klavier laughs, though the sound is breathless and without mirth. "I _want_ to perform for them. I want to make them _happy_. I don't want to be _afraid_ , Apollo. I don't want _him_ to have _won—_ for _Daryan_ to have won."

"Okay." Apollo nods, slowly, expression thoughtful. "Okay. Then we'll make it happen."

"How?" Klavier stares down at his lover, struck once again by how _strong_ Apollo is, to be able to make a statement like that and make it sound _true_.

"You did all right during rehearsal." Apollo grabs hold of both Klavier's hands again. "What was it about rehearsal that made things better?"

Klavier looks away. "The stage lights weren't so bright. The audience wasn't so dark."

"We can fix those. No problem."

"But then the audience won't be able to see so well—"

"Better that than you not being able to play, right?" Apollo leaps to his feet, expression set in determination. "Anything else that made it better earlier?"

Klavier stays silent, not quite meeting Apollo's eyes.

"Klavier?" Apollo leans forward, expression suspicious. "Answer me. With words. Truthful words."

Klavier sighs. " _You_ were there, Apollo Justice. I... was singing to you, _liebling_."

"Oh." Apollo's fingers loosen their hold. "Well... I don't think I really want to be down there in the audience. They seem a little... _intense_ for my tastes. And may not appreciate me putting in earplugs during your most hideous songs."

A short laugh escapes Klavier's mouth, startling him. "That's fine. I do not think I would be able to see you in the audience, anyway. I think... I will need to be trying very hard not to look at the audience, period, if we are to try this again."

"Right. So." Apollo draws in a deep breath and lets it out in a huff. "What if I was up on stage with you?"

Klavier blinks. "What?"

"What if I take a chair and sit on stage with you?" Apollo shrugs, though his cheeks are bright red again. "Then you can pretend that you're just playing for me, like when we're at home."

"But..." Shaking his head, Klavier squeezes Apollo's hands tight. "You don't want to be put in the spotlight as my boyfriend. I have told you before about how rough that can be—"

"Who said anything about announcing I'm your boyfriend?" Planting a soft kiss to the tip of Klavier's nose, Apollo smiles slyly. "I'll say I'm a friend, here to offer some help if I can. Let them make their own conclusions."

"They will." Klavier thinks back to nights with the original Gavinners, looking up fan sites and finding theories and stories that had left everyone in stitches with laughter. "Some of them will be good; others will be... interesting. They will probably write stories about us. Especially once someone recognizes that you are one of my courtroom rivals."

"We aren't _rivals_ , we're... co-searchers for the truth."

Klavier finds himself smiling again. "And it will still not protect you from some of them saying very nasty things about you."

"I really don't care." There's utter determination in Apollo's voice. "If they're going to say something nasty about me for helping out a friend, they're not the kind of person we care about anyway. So. What do you think? Do you want to give it a try?"

Biting down hard on his lip, Klavier mulls over his options before nodding emphatically. "Yes. If you are willing, I would like to try."

"Okay."

Klavier allows Apollo to haul him to his feet, then spins the smaller man around and steals a kiss. "Thank you, _schatzi_. I am sorry that I am so much trouble for you."

"You aren't trouble." Apollo smiles. "Well, sometimes you are, but not because of this. Besides..."

Klavier waits, Apollo held in his arms.

"I helped you, earlier, right?" Apollo's head is suddenly buried against Klavier's chest. "I was there and I sa—... I helped?"

"You saved me, Apollo." Klavier smooths a hand gently over Apollo's hair, his voice catching as he realizes which nightmare of Apollo's he may finally be able to help put to rest. "You have rescued me so many times, _engel_ , and tonight was no exception."

"Good." Apollo straightens, looking a bit sheepish. "Not that it's really that big a deal, helping someone with nightmares or a panic attack or—"

"Apollo." Klavier cuts off the steadily faster patter of denial, hugging his lover close for just a few seconds longer. "Sometimes it's the nightmares that we're most in need of rescue from and least likely to get help for."

"That..." Apollo's voice is thick as he pats Klavier on the chest. "You should write that down, Gavin. It's a good start to a song. Now, let's go find a chair I won't look too ridiculous sitting in and go rescue the rest of your band from your fans."

XXX

Apollo explains what they're going to do to the distraught theatre crew, standing firm in his decisions despite their protests.

Klavier is the one who carries the chair—a simple wooden tripod with a pretty latticework back and comfortable cushions on both the back and seat, that they dug out of storage somewhere and that doesn't make Apollo look _too_ short when he's sitting in it. Klavier sets the chair down on the right side of the stage before walking over to accept his guitar from Ryan with a nod of thanks, strapping the instrument back on.

Apollo taps the microphone that he is wearing now, causing a steady bass beat to reverberate through the theatre. "Well, guess that answers whether it's on or not."

Several thousand eyes turn to look at him, curiosity, wariness, anger, and welcome all vying together. Apollo very quickly averts his gaze upward, wondering that _anyone_ could happily perform for this many people.

He is Apollo Justice, though, and he is _fine_ , and if he has his way everyone _else_ is going to be fine, too. "Hi, everyone. My name's Apollo. You don't know me—"

There is a scream from the front row, and a young woman who can't be much older than Trucy begins bouncing up and down. " _It's Apollo Justice! From court! I_ told _you all, I_ told _you—_ "

Security begins bearing down on the woman from both sides, and her friends quickly pull her back down, covering her mouth with their hands.

All right, make that _most_ of these people don't know him. Apollo's not sure if it's a good thing or not that he's already been recognized. He can deal with that later, he supposes. "All of you are here today because you're fans of the Gavinners."

The crowd is becoming more intent on him, more interested.

 _Opening statements should be short and succinct, summarizing events to date, but it's best if they can also pack an emotional punch, begin the process of swaying the judge to your side._ Apollo can't remember the name of the teacher who told him that, what seems an eternity ago, but he remembers the tone and the words readily enough. He's never been more grateful for what seemed like superfluous advice in his life. "The Gavinners have been through a lot lately. They suffered betrayal by one of their own. They've faced personal tragedies. They considered quitting, to give everyone a chance to recover. And then when they tried to come back... well, I doubt I need to tell anyone here what happened three months ago."

Klavier isn't looking at the audience, is only rarely glancing up at Apollo, all his attention seemingly focused on fiddling with his guitar, though Apollo is certain that it's perfectly fine.

"One of their own was hurt, right in front of them. One of _your_ own—our own. For a while we weren't sure if he was going to be all right."

The audience is studying Klavier now, most with sympathy, but Apollo doesn't want their attention on Klavier, not until Klavier isn't quite so tense.

"Something like that takes a while to recover from." Apollo draws a deep breath. "But we want to recover from it. We want to give you what you all came here for—a wonderful, heart-felt performance. But it means there's going to be a few changes tonight. We're going to keep the lights like this—I know it makes it harder for you to see everyone, but it lets _us_ see _you_. It lets you all be real people to those up here—individual people. Because that's what we need right now. We need to be able to look out there and see _people_ looking back at us. People who believe in us. People who want this to succeed as badly as we do."

A murmur runs through the audience, but it is less angry than it had been before, more speculative and sympathetic—like a gallery crowd that is starting to come around to his side, and Apollo hopes that's a good sign.

Drawing a breath, Apollo continues on. "And you're also going to have to tolerate my presence here. I promise, I'll stay out of the way of any group shots."

"Not that photographs are allowed." Klavier is smiling as he raises his head to look at Apollo, utter gratitude shining from him. "But yes, we will try to make sure everyone can see well enough. And I am sorry, to anyone who is disappointed."

"They didn't come here to listen to you talk, Gavin." Apollo settles down in his chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "So unless anyone has any objections—"

Cymbeline doesn't give anyone a chance to voice objections, if they have them. She immediately screams out the count off, and the Gavinners are off.

Klavier comes in when he's supposed to, and though Apollo grimaces at his friend and lover and makes a pretense of sticking his fingers in his ears at the loudest part, he can't help grinning when Klavier's voice soars up and up and up, ending the song with a beautiful flourish.

XXX

Klavier sings for Apollo, and though it's not exactly like they were at home, performing in front of thousands of their closest friends, it's good enough.

It's enough, that he can turn and watch Apollo and know that Apollo loves him with or without the music.

It's enough that he can watch Apollo's foot tap in time with the music.

It's enough that he can look out at the audience and see faces looking back at him, recognizable, _human_ faces, and even if not all of them are happy, _most_ are, and none of them are monsters.

Not that you can tell a monster by their face. The monsters Klavier has known have all looked very human right up until the end.

But there are no _nightmares_ here, at least, and by the time the band is done with their second encore, has gathered together to make their bows, Klavier is really, honestly smiling.

He smiles more when Cymbeline graps Apollo and throws him into the center of the band, under Klavier's left arm.

A picture from that bow appears on a fan site within hours, despite the prohibition on photography during a performance.

Klavier downloads it, intentionally ignoring the comments below, liking the look of he and Apollo together amidst a crew of musicians.

XXX

Athena and Trucy join them for part of the tour, much to Phoenix Wright's noisy dismay.

The fear doesn't go away immediately. It is never quite as crippling as it was during that first attempt at a performance, and the more Klavier works with Athena, the more successful performances he is able to etch over the memory of the attack, the less power it has.

Apollo stops stepping on stage with him half-way through the tour, but he promises to be in the audience. Though Klavier isn't sure it's entirely the truth—Apollo is still woefully reticent to accept the brilliance of some of the Gavinners' songs—if Klavier imagines hard enough that it is Apollo he is playing for, Apollo screaming in desire out in the writhing darkness, he is able to smile and keep his fingers moving.

He never convinces Apollo to sing on stage with him, but Apollo does sing along with him in the car, in hotel rooms, backstage, and that, too, is enough.

Though Klavier still hopes that maybe, someday, if Apollo is willing, they can sing something in the studio together, a duet between lovers...

"What are you thinking, Klavier?" Apollo looks up at him with narrowed eyes, his head pillowed on Klavier's shoulder.

They are home, finally, and Klavier is glad to be home, glad to be getting back to the other job that he dearly loves. "You say that as though it's an accusation, Herr Justice."

"Because when you're looking at me and smiling all goofy like that, I start to worry about what you're planning." Apollo sits up cross-legged on the couch. "So, out with it."

"I'd like to sing with you. Record something." Klavier run his thumb over the back of Apollo's hand. "Even if it's just to stay between you and me, _schatzi_."

"Do you _ever_ stop thinking about music?" Apollo's tone is exasperated.

"When I am in a good place? Not really, though I am quite capable of _prioritizing_ , no matter what you and Fraulein Trucy may believe."

"Uh huh." The skepticism in Apollo's voice is obvious.

"I _am_." Klavier knows that he is never going to convince Apollo of this fact. "Just because you caught me on a very bad day the first time doesn't mean that I'm not capable of telling when something is more important than the music."

"You don't have to keep arguing. I believe that you are extremely dedicated to your job." Apollo pats Klavier's knee. "But I don't think we should record anything together."

Klavier sighs. "I suspected you would say something like that. Ah, well. I suppose that means I will just have to coerce you into singing more, so that I can revel in the sound of your voice."

"Klavier?" Apollo crosses his arms in front of his chest.

" _Ja_ , Herr Forehead?"

" _Objection_."

Klavier can't help but laugh, throwing himself at the defense attorney, fingers reaching for the spots that he knows are most ticklish.

The nightmares aren't gone completely, for either of them.

There are far too many people making far too much money writing speculation about the relationships between Klavier, Apollo, Athena, and Trucy.

The legal system is still a mess, though a _better_ mess, because of them.

But he has Apollo at his side, music in his heart, and a cadre of friends he wouldn't trade for the world, and that, for now, is more than enough.


End file.
